


now and always

by manbunjon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Marking, Slow Burn, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manbunjon/pseuds/manbunjon
Summary: He sucked at her neck, pulling a bruise to the surface of her skin and a stab of satisfaction ran through him, knowing that no combination of scarves and high collars would be able to hide the mark. Instead she would have to bear it for the world, his mark upon her,his mark that proved for once and for all that she was his.





	now and always

**Author's Note:**

> written for **[Jon x Sansa Fanfiction’s Love Songs Event](http://jonxsansafanfiction.tumblr.com/post/182498008526/hi-everyone-to-spread-the-love-this-valentines)**
> 
> day five | all of me by john legend

She entered the room without a knock to announce her presence but Jon knew her nevertheless. His body had become so attuned to her that he can recognise the sound of her footfalls on the hardwood tile, just as well as he could rise to refill her chalice before she has even called it be filled or help her down from her saddle before they have even stopped riding. 

It is a closeness he had never expected, certainly not when they were children. She had never been unkind purposefully but there was the cold harshness to her words that mimicked Lady Catelyn's that had made him feel so unwelcomed in her presence. But now they are truly siblings, closer even than she and Arya had been, maybe even closer than he and Robb. 

But it was a different kind of closeness. Many times it had been mistaken for a lover's closeness, though they never shared so much as an embrace to imply such. It is merely in the way Jon looked at her, or she at him, in the heated, knowing glances that are exchanged or the lingering touches when she was pulled from her saddle and her body leaned just barely into his, sliding down his front as her feet are placed once more on the earth. 

She had long ago given up her urge to make a match for him, now that he had been legitimized by the queen and the name Stark pinned upon him like a badge of honour. There were many suitable Northern girls, Sansa had often prodded, _perhaps even a Southron girl if it please you._ But they both knew Jon would take no wife, not even after his vows to the Night's Watch had been completed. Not when the place in his heart that his wife might have occupied was already filled so full that there would be no place left for her. 

And though Jon often feared he might have to take a bat to the men of Winterfell's court who so often lusted after their Lady, Sansa had expressed purposeful disinterest in wedding again. Two husbands was quite enough _,_ she said. Secretly, the thought had pleased Jon. Merely watching Sansa dance with the Northern Lords and knights made his chest tight with jealousy. He could not imagine what it would be to see her wedded and bedded by one of them. 

Her arms fell over his shoulders softly as she embraces him, pulling him to her chest as tightly as if she did not wish to release him again. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you earlier." she said, letting her head fall against his. He could smell the sweet perfumes brushed through her hair, the dark strands bright as fire by the warmth of the brazier just beside her. "My journey from the Last Hearth was longer than expected."

His hand curled over the one she had laid upon his chest, squeezing her fingers gently beneath his callused ones, and for a moment he considers pinning her against him forever. But all too soon she was pulling away. 

"That's alright, love." he said, the corners of his mouth quirking as he turned to face her. 

It was clear that she had come to him as soon as their ride had finished and it flattered him, to know that she had come first to him, and even smelling of horses and with her clothes laden with dust she was still a sight for sore eyes. 

"I missed you." he confessed. The words brought a smile to her face and it seemed to lessen the gloom of the room as quickly and brightly as though the sun had just risen right beside his writing desk. 

A blush coloured her cheeks. "I missed you as well, Jon." she said. There was something about the way she said his name, just one word, one simple syllable, that set his soul alight. "It wasn't the same without you at my side."

The words made him swell with pride. They had taken many journeys together over their time as the twin heads of Winterfell, or so Arya had teasingly taken to calling them. They had journeyed through the North in search of support against the Bolton invaders and then again to garner support for the queen, and once Queen Daenerys had taken firm hold of King's Landing, they often made the journey south to take their place upon her small council when she called upon them.

Sansa, who had once hated riding, had taken to enjoying their journeys, once Jon had come to sit beside her. During their days riding they spoke of many things as freely and conversationally as with any other and during the nights, they sat before the fire and chatted with the men they journeyed with. 

Sansa often sang for them, her voice so sweet and clear that it brought tears to Jon's eyes, and once or twice she had even plucked at the harp, blushing furiously when she had claimed to be poor at it, though Jon knew no such thing could possibly be true. Indeed she had been a fine player, plucking and singing and making the knights that rode with them clamber over themselves to get a better seat beside her at the fire. 

Sometimes she danced with them, at first to show her appreciation for their loyalty and then, out of pure enjoyment. Jon, who often politely declined her offers to dance, took his enjoyment merely from watching her, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could look at her, laughing as she danced, her skirts pulled a bit above her ankles and her red hair whipping around her like a veil of pure fire. 

He too had come to enjoy their journeys and was dissapointed when he had been called south to visit the queen instead of accompanying her to the Umbers in the Last Hearth. He had spent many sleepless nights worrying about her safety, and smiling to himself at what she would say if she could see him fretting over her now. She had Brienne at her back, he knew, and she held a sword as good, or even better, than any man besides himself, so Jon's worry had lessened, if only just a bit. 

But she had returned to him now, whole and safe, and there was nothing upon her face to betray that she had encountered any trouble during her journey. 

They called the Lord of Winterfell severe, they said he never smiled, never did anything but pout and look dour. But in truth his few smiles were reserved only for her. Only for Sansa, only for _his_ Sansa. 

"And you, Jon? How did you fare during your journey?" Sansa asked. She had not made to move to the armchair Jon had pulled before the fire for her, where she often spent her evenings working on her needlework or playing her harp, and sometimes she even sang for him. Those were the nights he liked best. 

He liked when she stayed close to him, when he could wrap his arms around her and feel her hips shift beneath his hands as she leaned toward him. He leaned forward, resting his head against her belly for a moment of weakness, her thighs braced against his knees, nosing at the gown and appreciating that it smelled of her. 

He regaled the details of his journey, of the only spot of trouble they had come across when a band of hilltribes had set upon them on the Kingroad. He had heard them far before they came across his retinue and Jon had been excited at the prospect of exercising his swordhand. But the smile had faded from his lips as he saw the look of horror darken Sansa's eyes. 

He furrowed his brows at her. "It was no trouble." he said. "No danger, really."

She worried at her bottom lip. "There was danger, Jon." she said. "What if you had been hurt? What if you had been..." she trailed off, looking crestfallen. "What if you hadn't come home to me?"

His thumb stroked over her back. "I'll always come home to you, Sansa." he breathed, looking up at her. "You need not worry about that."

Her fingers stroked his cheek, fingertips running over the scar above his eye. Besides Melisandre, she was the only one who had even touched his scars, who he had ever _allowed_ touch his scars. She was tender, touching the scars with such intensity upon her face that it was as though she was trying to undo all the pain the scars had caused. 

"I do worry, Jon." she whispered. His hand smoothed down her back, feeling the beaded embroidery of her gown roll beneath his fingers. Her skin was warm even through the thick layers of wool and cotton. "Some nights I can barely sleep with worry. What would I do without you?" 

He leaned into her touch, letting his cheek fall into her soft palm. "You don't have to think of that, Sansa. I'm not going anywhere," his free hand took hers and squeezed her fingers. "I promise, love."

Sansa pulled the short leather band from her hair and let her fingers sink into his dark hair, surprised at how unruly the curls had become during such a short time apart. "It's a bit long." she said, artfully changing the subject. Her words had made the flush reappear upon her cheeks and move down her neck. 

"Perhaps you ought to trim it for me." he said. "Lest I cut myself."

Sansa laughed softly. It was the longest he had ever held her and Jon was afraid that if he even moved a muscle the spell would be broken and she would pull away, leaving his arms a hollow promise of what they had been and hopefully would be again. 

"You look a proper Northern lord now." she said. 

_Like father,_ he thought, the unspoken meaning hanging heavily in the air between them. People often said Sansa had the look of her mother and he the look of her father. The implications made his belly tight with excitement and nervousness.

Jon leaned down to kiss her brow, as he had taken to doing each night before retiring to his chambers, where the memory of her touch often kept him warm for hours. "And you a Northern lady." he said, squeezing her fingers. "You always did."

He looked up at her. There was only two of them now, their pack shrinking from eight to two, and now it hurt to much to think of the others, the ones they had lost. Jon thinks of them often, of Arya and Needle, of Bran and Rickon, and Robb Stark, the brother he should have protected. It was a mark upon his honour and Jon would not let history repeat itself. When she had first appeared at the gates of Castle Black he had sworn his sword to her. 

He had promised his blade and his back and his heart, thought the true depth of the meaning remained unspoken, though it passed freely between them. 

All too quickly Sansa had pulled away, venturing into the hallway to call for a servant to bring their supper to Jon's solar. As soon as she had said the words his stomach growled, leaving Jon to smirk, wondering how she had known that he was hungry even before he had.

They dined on twin plates of salted pork and roasted potatoes and a few slices of bread with sweet honeyed cheese. Jon was glad to be rid of the thin stews he had been eating for the previous fortnight and ate in silence, watching as Sansa delicately licked the honey from her fingers one by one and trying not to think of what it would be like to do the same. 

Despite the length of the table in his solar they sat side by side, so close that Jon could feel the warmth of her arm as it bumped his, their fingers brushing together when they had both reached for a flagon of ale to refill their goblets. 

Sansa's fingers lingered, Jon able to feel the softness of her skin as her fingers danced over the back of his callused palms, her fingertips absently tracing the ridges of the raised scars that laid upon the palm of his burned hand. 

The heat that so often coursed between them had only been stoked by so long apart, like the flames of a low burning fire that surged back to life when a new log was added to the hearth. As soon as they had seen each other again they had fallen back into the rhythm that had been established between them so long ago. 

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell broke their fast together and supped together each evening, and though they broke apart for long portions of the day to attend the various duties that called for their attention, like two ships come to port, they slowly drifted back together.

Sansa watched him train in the yard some afternoons, even when she had a mountainous pile of other duties to attend. At first Jon had thought that it reminded her of their lives as Winterfell's children, when they had not a care in the world and only their parents spent their nights awake with worried, that it had made her think of Robb and Arya and Bran, of when House Stark had been whole and strong. 

But when Jon had come to recognise his own caged desire reflected in her hot gaze, he had come to know exactly why she watched him, understanding then that just as he seemed to do with the maids and ladies of Winterfell, he called to her too. 

He could feel her eyes upon his back as he worked with his sword and shield, sparring with the knights and the occasional lord who thought to challenge his prowess, and it had made Sansa hot beneath her collar to see exactly why Jon was so feared upon the battlefield. 

His muscles worked beneath his tunic, the laces falling open to reveal his strong chest, the smattering of dark hair beneath the laces making her eyes snag upon it so that Jon was almost glad that his muscles were so fatigued and cramped from so long sparring, for they showed as a sharper and stronger angle beneath her watchful eye. His body was lean and lithe, a danger to any man- or woman- of Winterfell and though he trained with the blunted sword of training, she could see that any weapon was deadly in his hands. 

When he had finished training, when he drained water from his skin as though he was a man that had gone for weeks without sustenance, he had looked up at her, watching him from her place at the battlements, looking as though she could reach out and devour him whole. Even thought he layers of padded leathers and the worn training armour he had been able to feel her hot gaze upon his skin, and later, when he greets her in her solar by reaching out and taking her hand, though he had only touched her fingers Sansa had been able to feel his touch everywhere. 

When the finished their supper Sansa patted her lips with her napkin and Jon tried not to follow the movement, thinking how he would love to lick away the stickiness upon her lips with his tongue. 

Jon made to retire to his solar and assumed that the Lady of Winterfell would follow. She accepted the arm he offered and tucked her fingers over the crook of his elbow as they walked, falling quickly into step and into a comfortable, conversationless silence. 

It felt nice to have her at his side during their evenings together, despite the fact that not a word and scance a look was exchanged between them. He imagined it was like what Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn had had, the closeness of friendship that stood alongside the closeness of love. 

Jon was halfway through a letter when he heard the scrape of wooden legs against the floor as Sansa pushed back her chair and came to stand beside him. He turned to face her, remembering earlier how she had pressed herself to him, had let him inhale her scent and enjoy her closeness. 

Her cheeks had grown so dark a pink that he could read their colour even in the low light and her shoulders were held high and tight. 

Jon raised his brows by way of question. "Are you alright, love?" 

She licked her bottom lip nervously and Jon tried to keep his eyes from following the movement, feeling his belly hot and tight beneath his tunic. "I..." she began, looking uncomfortable. He felt nervousness pull at him as well, fearing the worst. "I made something for you." 

He felt his lips part as his jaw fell in surprise. He had so feared that she had come to tell him of her acceptance of one of the Northern Lord's betrothals that the news had thrown him. 

She took his hand and laid a square of pale fabric upon it, the fine silk a stark contrast to the scarred palm of his burned hand, looking embarrassed. Jon felt his cheek twitch, thinking it was perhaps the most endearing look she had ever given him. 

"It's been a while since I set to work on something so complicated, so you must forgive my messy stitches. I only wanted you to have something to show you how important you are to us—" Sansa paused, her eyes flicking to his face. " _To me_."

He looked down at the cloth and felt his eyes begin to sting, just as they had when she had sang to him those sad songs about Jonquil and Florian. The handkerchief was small enough to fit easily against his breast beneath leathers or plate, and despite what she had said the stitches were nothing if not neat, delicately embroidering a direwolf in expensive looking silver thread with strands of red silk for eyes. 

"I gave you my favour many years ago," Sansa said, giving a shy smile. "Though I am sure you do not remember, I think you are due for an update." 

He ran his fingers over the cloth, inspecting each careful stitch, each painstaking detail, and struggled with the lump in his throat. Jon slid a hand beneath his jerkin and felt for the familiar lump of material, the first thing he made for each morning and the last thing he packed against his breast as he finished dressing.

Sansa's eyes widened and she reached for him, letting her fingers run over the cloth as though testing its existence. "You truly kept it?" her eyes shone as she took another step closer. "After all these years..."

"Of course I did." Jon said, looking confused, as though he couldn't quite believe that she could have thought him so callous. 

One last step closer and Sansa was enveloped by the chain of his arms, as though no time had passed between their earlier interaction and now. Her fingers buried in his hair, her nails scratching gently at his scalp in such a way as to make him blow out a sigh, his breath hot against the skin of her stomach as he leaned his head against her belly. 

Jon nosed at the material of the gown that had rucked up slightly beneath his head, inhaling the scents of rosewater and lavender and just _her_ that laid heavy upon her skin for as long as he was able. Would that he could have stayed this way forever, with his arms around her and the column of her body leaning completely against his, knowing without a doubt that he would remain steady against her. 

"Of course you did." she repeated. 

The lust in the air was palpable in every touch, every kiss, every lingering glance and every slow, cavillingcaress. Her fingers raked through his hair, the soft sigh she gave leaving Jon to wonder if she really did prefer it long after all. 

Her free hand was claimed by his, his thumb canvassing the back of her hand as though he planned to commit it to memory. He pressed his lips against the gentle slope of her belly, the rounded bones of her hips, the slight divot of her navel, his breath so hot and so close that he could feel her body shiver in response.

Her fingers slid beneath his chin and turned his chin to look toward her. 

Sansa looked upon him with a gaze so consommatingly hot that Jon was brought back to his grapple with Ser Jory the previous week, when he had found her gaze hot and dark gaze upon his back. Jon had watched as she stood upon the parapets, her eyes sliding indolently over his prone form, devouring the sight of his bare torso after he had thrown his tunic down. He had not missed the way her teeth sank into her bottom lip, then or now. 

It had long ago become clear to him why his father had chosen his Lady Lyanna, for if his mother had been anything like his Sansa, Jon knew that he too would have given up his crown, his throne, his life, _anything_ she asked of him he too would have given her, if only she would be his.

He felt her fingers unwind from his curls and moved lower, stroking his cheek and feeling the scrape of stubble against her smooth palm, diverting from her path down the side of his face to run along the slope of his bottom lip. 

The Targaryen Lord looked up at his Lady Stark, his eyes alight with warmth and love, and knew that his heart was hers. 

"Sansa." Jon breathed, nosing at her belly. He could smell her, taste her very skin even through the layers of the lamb's wool gown, and he wanted more of her. 

His face pressed between her neck and shoulder, his mouth moving to the pulse at her throat. She whimpered, her body sinking against his, her arms winding comfortably around him to encircle his neck. Jon could feel himself half hard against her and shifted, trying carefully to hide the state of him from his Lady, though he doubted his sudden tug of the leg of his breeches was hardly inconspicuous. 

The chain of her necklace was cold enough to singe his throat as he kissed the column of her slender throat. He could smell the perfume her fingers had dotted behind each ear and though his nose recognised his sweetness it compared little to the smell of her plain skin, which he inhaled voraciously. 

Jon pulled at the chain, untangling the looping links from around her neck. He moved slowly, allowing the Lady of Winterfell ample time to still his hands, but she made no attempt to stop him and watched instead as he worked, the heat of her gaze making gooseflesh trickle down his arms and back. 

He sucked at her neck, pulling a bruise to the surface of her skin and a stab of satisfaction ran through him, knowing that no combination of scarves and high collars would be able to hide the mark. Instead she would have to bear it for the world, his mark upon her, the mark that proved for once and for all that she was _his_. 

Cold hands slid beneath his tunic and Jon jumped at the touch, her fingers dancing across his bare flesh light as a sigh. He shivered, and when Sansa lifted his tunic over his head, allowed her fascinated fingers to run across the body that had ached to touch her since that night so many moons ago at Castle Black. 

War and age had melted away some of the childhood fat from the Lord of Winterfell's body and in its place remained the tight muscle and firm sinew of a man well trained in combat, and as her cold hands slid over his bare shoulders she could feel it contract beneath her palms. But her arms seemed to steady him, to tether him to this earth when all else felt as though it were turning suddenly on an axis, and Jon felt confident within the ring of her arms, as though, despite the fact that it was his sword at their bedside, she would not allow any harm befall him. 

Sansa's fingers rucked through his curls and she let out a gasp as he pulled her flush against him, her hands fisting at the back of his head in her surprise. There was no mistaking his hardness now but she raised no objections, girding herself down against him. 

She moved to her feet and Jon gasped softly at the lightness of his lap now that she was no longer upon it, feeling as though the Gods had given him the greatest pleasure only to rip it from him all too quickly. He made to speak but she silenced him with a look, her fingers curling around the chain of her necklace as she pulled it over her head, the metal sliding onto the floor with a clang. 

Sansa undressed, removing her outer layers with a haste Jon had never seen from her. It made his chest swell, feeling proud to think he had elicited such a response from her, the imperturbable Lady Stark of Winterfell. 

Jon tipped back in his chair as she worked at the stays of her outer shift. Her knowledgable fingers made quick practice of undoing the laces of her bodice without sparing a look at it, until all that remained was the smooth silk of her small clothes, which, as she stood before the hearth, had gone iridescent in the firelight. 

She could feel the affection in his touch as it was soon pouring out of him, reflected in every lingering caress, every warm, open-mouthed kiss that he placed along the moors of her body, nuzzling against the warm, bare flesh as though he was a man starved of touch. 

Sansa gasped in surprise as Jon hoisted her up into his arms and he carried her across the room. He roughly set her down on the bed, trying not to look overwhelmed at the sight of her in his bed and the knowledge that he would soon be in it beside her, after so many nights spent musing that he was. 

She looked up at him, watching as he turned his attentions toward the breeches that had tightened around his aching cock, undoing the laces to try and relieve the building ache, the way his fingers brushed against his hardened cock leaving him groaning with frustration and want. 

His body hunched over hers, careful not to bind her down with his weight. Instead Jon propped himself up and moved back to the place he had come to crave, just between her neck and shoulder, where he could smell her sweetness and press his lips to the pulse at her throat, the taste of her bare skin sweeter than even the most cloying Arbor Gold. 

"I've wanted you for so long-" Jon said, his voice hoarse and ragged. 

He did not have the words enough to describe it, the way he wanted her, _craved_ her, as a starving man craved food. His hands skimmed across her leg, working his way from ankle to thigh, feeling her skin so soft beneath his callused fingers that his lips twitched on their own, aching to continue the path of his hands. 

" _Gods_ , Sansa." he breathed. 

Jon could feel her hands at his belt, a soft metallic clang filling the chamber as his swordbelt slid from his hips and onto the floor. As she worked at his breeches Jon felt green as grass, the fingers that fluttered around his cock causing his hips to twitch involuntarily toward her. 

Jon rolled onto his back and pulled Sansa atop him. Her legs fell open on either side of his thighs, bracketing them firmly as his hands slid down her slim back to palm at her arse. His arms wound around her, holding her flush against him so that she could feel firsthand the effect of her attentions.

Sansa reached for him and brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek, gently tracing the scar over his eye with the pad of her pointing finger. Her hand had lapsed back into his dark curls and she pulled at his hair just hard enough to make him growl, deep, ragged, wolflike, as she pulled him towards her. 

Jon pressed his lips to hers and felt at once that they were as soft as he had somehow known they would be. He turned his head, his mouth slanting against hers so he could deepen the kiss, her tongue sliding along his lower lip before delving into his mouth. He could taste her, soft and fresh and sweet as the honeyed wine they had indulged at dinner. 

"Sansa, love." Jon breathed, his voice was hoarse and heavy with the grit of desire. She looked at him. He could see her cheeks were flushed and hot, her eyes dark with want, and her bottom lip had grown swollen where her teeth bit into it. "I want you."

"You have me, Jon." she said, fingers carding through his hair, raking it back from where it had fallen into his eyes. She was so close that he could feel her heart beating a staccato against his chest. 

He frowned, curling the ends of her hair through his fingers. "I want...not just your—" he trailed off and cleared his throat, his fingers dragging over the length of her hip through her small clothes. "I want you. All of you. Every part of you." 

Her hands are still caught in his hair and his around her waist, his fingers tracing over her skin as though he were mapping it. "Marry me." he said, his heart feeling as though it were beating hard enough to burst through his skin. The adoration in his eyes deepened as his pupils blew, so dark and deep that Sansa feared she could get lost in them. "Marry me, Sansa. If it isn't you...then its no one." 

Her blue eyes were bright as starlight, heating him as she met his gaze unflinchingly, as for one long moment, perhaps the longest of his life, no words were exchanged between them. 

The corners of her mouth twitched. "Would we wed in the Godswood?" asked the Queen in the North, the blue of her eyes half swallowed by darkened lust. 

Jon laughed, feeling as though he could breathe again. "The Godswood or the sept or the garderobe for all it bothers me." he said. His thumbs stroking along the lines of her face as he cradled her face, leaning his forehead against hers. "I don't care where they say the words. I only want you, love." 

Sansa's fingers roamed his scarred torso as though she were mapping every inch of it, and though it was not the first time she had let her fingers wander along the scarred skin, it was the first time such an innocuous act had left him nearly shaking with want. 

Her fingers twisted in his hair, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. His hand cupped her cheek as he guided her head to follow his, tongues and teeth and hands all lashing together. Despite his state of feverish lightheadedness Jon's mind worked, realising hotly that this would be the first of many nights spent exchanging kisses with the Lady of Winterfell, their fingers laced, their entwined bodies nestled against the furs.

His kiss was slower now, more deliberate. Jon allowed he take his time with his languid exploration. Sansa didn't pull him against her with the same desperation and he didn't push, content with the way her tongue moved against his and how it seemed to be doing as much to enthrall him as the way her hips rolled against his cock. 

Her fingers worked at the stays of her shift until the cloth drew apart and tumbled down her shoulders. Jon watched as her small breasts sprang forth, each pale nipple finally divested from the prison of cloth as she was at once bared to him. His hands rose over her rounded hips, over her belly, rising higher until he could cup her breast. She moaned as his thumb dragged across each pert nipple, Jon groaning to find it had pebbled beneath his attentive touch. 

Her breasts were slight under his palms but softer as the silken shift had been, and he could taste the sweetness of her bare skin as he swirled his tongue across them. He ran his tongue along the lissom slope of her belly, her gaze hot as a Dornish summer as she watched him, the rasp of his beard gently scratching at her naked skin as he kissed the smooth ivory skin of her pale ankles, her shapely calves, her soft thighs.

Every inch of her skin that had been touched by his enamoured lips seemed to prick, Jon's mouth burning hot against her. Sansa parted her thighs slightly in a silent invitation, a heady mix of arousal, desire, and pleasure in her eyes. 

Jon swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat, dry and brittle as cotton, as suddenly it felt as though he had been set alight and her touch was the only thing able to sooth the flames. 

He leaned over her and though body dwarfed hers, Jon was careful to balance himself upon his knees and forearms so as not to trap her beneath, and as his fingers moved between her legs his touch remained heavy yet gentle. 

He could feel the wetness between her thighs and offered the same low, pitying whine Ghost often did when the wolf was being taunted by the butchers in the kitchen before they offered him a bone. Sansa grinned, but as Jon let his cock brush against her soft folds, the soft smile was pulled from her face as her lips arced into a moan.

"Jon." she whined, her cheeks flushed with arousal. Jon, who had previously though himself immune to flattery, found the neediness in her voice, and the way her hips rolled forward as she sought to relieve the discomfort building between her legs, enough to stoke his ego until it was large and impressive as the Wall. "Oh Gods Jon— _Please_."

His hand curled around her knee as he pulled her legs around his waist and pushed into her. For a moment their moans mingled into a single long, guttural sound born at the back of their throats and filling the empty chamber like the echo of music. 

Sansa was tight as a balled fist as he nudged forward, Jon letting out a strangled moan as he felt her inner muscles clench around him, her nails digging painfully into his back as he sheathed himself almost to the hilt. She moaned against the shell of her ear as her hips rolled forward to meet his.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down. Jon was surprised when the length of his body laid against hers and she only moaned at the pleasure of the intrusive weight. His hips pressed flat against hers, almost uncomfortably, so that he could feel the rounded points of her hipbones grinding against his. 

Jon pitied her poor soft breasts for being so mashed against his chest and he reached for them so that he could begin to make amends, feeling her pert nipples slide between his strong fingers in such a way as to make her breath hitch. 

He wished there were two of him. One that could continue to move atop her, to feel her body pulse around his, and hear how her breath hitched with every move of his hips, and one that could be outside of this body, that could see the way her toes curled against his lower back, or the way their bodies, as in so many other things, had begun to work in perfect synch.

He buried his face into her hair, inhaling the sweet jasmines and lavenders of the exotic oils gifted from Dorne, the fingers of his free hand scraping gently against her scalp as she bedded her head against his chest. 

His fingers were gentle, despite the calluses that had been formed from the worn grip of his broadsword, and when they touched her they brought only pleasure; pulling gently through her auburn hair, stroking his fingers across her cheek, touching his fingers to her folds in so gentle and knowing a way as to make her thighs tremble. 

The Lady of Winterfell had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of desire displayed so flagrantly in men's eyes— but as Jon met her gaze, she found it was nothing similar. His hooded eyes were scorching, his grey pupils blown wide and dark, and though such steadfast eye contact made her blush Sansa did not look away. 

Where another man might have taken to the chamber and thrown her onto his bed, might held her down, might have rutted against her quickly and mercilessly to abate his own state of aroused discomfort, Jon was slow and deliberate, bringing her as much pleasure as she brought to him. 

It made her eyes shine as she looked at him and Jon slowed, his dark brows furrowed. Sansa lifted a hand, letting her fingers travel over the hard lines of his face; his strong jaw, his unshorn chin, one of her hands stroking lovingly through his dark curls as she thought to encourage him, and when his worried expression melted away Sansa knew she had succeeded in conveying the confidence she held in him.

His arm had moved underneath her, his hand resting on the small of her back as he pulled her close, bringing her hips up to meet his. She could feel his hands, so rough and callused, span the width of her waist as he pulled their bodies so close that there was little space for even a moan to pass between them without being swallowed by the other. 

Sansa pressed her face between his neck and shoulder and when she bit down upon the firm muscle that strained there Jon gasped, his body shocked at the sudden intrusion of her teeth and the unrestrained pleasure that had been brought on so swiftly by the sensation. 

Their sweat dappled flesh mingled, interweaving bodies cast in a mix of candlelight and moonglow that slanted through the open window and created a heavenly aura around them. 

Her palms smoothed down his back to tighten around the slope of his arse, where her fingernails dug into his skin hard enough to leave ten neat half moon indentations behind. Jon moaned at the pain, thinking that he would be proud to bare any marks brought on by the passion of their lovemaking. 

His belly had already began to tighten and he knew that he would not be able to resist its call of his peak for much longer, not as she writhed beneath him like an unbroken mare, moaning his name against the shell of his ear and covering his face in a set of warm, open-mouthed kisses. 

"Gods _._ " she cried out, her voice hoarse and quivering and intensely arousing. Sansa's moans had begun to lilt higher, gently at first, but before long she was nearly shouting at the pleasure of his touch, pulsing around him as though at any moment she might explode. " _Jon!_ "

To hear her moan his name was enough to send Jon over the edge, thrusting him at once into the chasm of pleasure he had not known for far, far too long. At once every fibre of him, every inch of skin and bundle of nerve and strand of muscle, was stretched so incredibly taut that he was afraid he might be severed in half. 

Jon, looking down at the woman in his arms, was overcome with emotion. _At last,_ was all he could think. At long, long last he would be able to hold her, to feel her head pillowed upon his chest, to press his lips to hers and take her kiss as he had so long ached to. To no longer have to mask whatever poorly disguised affection laid so heavily in his dark eyes whenever he looked upon her or to pretend to entertain the proposals of the Lords of the North that he wed their daughters or sisters. 

Jon could barely catch his breath and in his arms the Lady of Winterfell fared no better, her eyes fluttering open after having been pressed so tightly shut. It took a moment for her breath to even and her vision to return to normal, no longer displaying the white spots that had danced before her eyes like small spirits. 

Jon rolled sideways, gritting his teeth at the painfully sharp pinpricks that swept down his skin as the sensation returned to the arm once pinned beneath her back. Sansa stirred and Jon lifted his head, fearing for a moment that she would rise and begin to dress, leaving his bed starkly cold and empty if it were no longer lit by her warmth. 

However, Sansa merely shifted onto her side and curled her body comfortably around his, as though the Gods had crafted his body solely for the purpose of housing hers against it. She braced her back against his chest and draped a thigh across him so that her leg could fall lazily between his. 

Jon nosed at her hair, thinking that it was the first time he had ever seen her auburn locks mussed and imperfect, and the thought that he was the reason behind it made him grin in smug satisfaction. 

"When we are married—" he began, wrapping an arm around her middle before sliding the other beneath her pillow so that her head could lay comfortably against both. "I hope you know I plan to do that many more times."

He smoothed back her hair and tucked it gently beneath her head, leaving her shoulders free for the many kisses he planned to place upon them. Her skin was warm beneath his lips, the slight tang of fresh sweat singing against his mouth as his lips moved languidly over her back, fluttering across the path of soft brown sunspots scattered over her shoulders. 

Sansa sighed softly in the darkness, her arm reaching behind her to tighten in his dark curls, as though bidding he did not stop, and even in the half darkness he could see her face was bright with pleasure, burnishing dully against the fingertips that brushed over them as she kissed him. 

She turned her head to look upon him, her fingers stroking the forearm laid beneath her head. "When we are married, I hope you know that I plan to do much, much more than that." she said. 

He pressed his lips to hers in a long, unobtrusive motion; a kiss long and deep and much softer than their last, without the same desperation and hurry to confine them. Still fresh in the glow of his release, Jon allowed himself to take his time in kissing her, to claim her lips not as a lover kiss, but a kiss from a proper husband to a proper wife, the same sort of kiss Lady Catelyn had once bestowed upon Lord Stark. 

Her body luxuriated in his arms as she sank so deeply into relaxation that for a moment Jon assumed she had fallen asleep. He closed his eyes and drew the furs over them, ready for sleep to take him as well, when she hummed gently. 

"That was a proper kiss." she said. Jon could feel her lips tickle his arm as she smiled. 

Jon agreed. "A lady's kiss." 

Jon pressed a kiss to the back of her head, basking in the scent of the sweet perfumed oils that she had combed through. Her arm framed the one he had laid over her waist, her fingers stroking his wrist. 

"Perhaps one day you ought to give me a Lord's kiss." said Sansa. 

Despite a lack of reason behind his sudden assiduity, Jon struggled to catch his breath. Their tired legs had tangled together beneath the furs, the soft curve of her arse pressed so close against him that even sated fully and still recovering from the exertion of his release, Jon could feel his cock begin to stir. 

"Aye, m'lady." he replied, swallowing the dryness her words had caused to build in his throat. "I could...." he swallowed hard. "I could kiss you."

"Sleep now, Jon." said the Lady of Winterfell. He could feel her struggle to stifle a yawn, her forefinger and thumb absently tracing the lines on the back of his hand. "There will be plenty of time for kisses and beddings and words. For now we need only rest."

"Aye, m'lady." Jon repeated, already struggling to resist fatigue.

Sansa brought his hand to her lips and kissed each of his scarred fingers. "Sleep well," she said and added, soft as a sigh: "my husband." 

For as long as he could remember Jon had felt out of place in this world, a wrecked ship floating through the sea in search of some barren flotsam to cling to. He had joined the Watch, had served as a steward, and climbed his way to Lord Commander, he had bested the Boltons, the Umbers, the white walkers. The feeling had lessened but never subsided, and since he had gone to sleep in the snow and awoken on the Red Witch's table it had seemed to double. Death had ended his watch at the Wall and without Robb or Arya or Bran, without his pack, Jon had felt at a loss. 

But when Sansa had come through the gate at Castle Black, sad and sweet and more beautiful than even a mummer could have described, it had been as though every confusion in his life had finally converged into one new meaning. 

_Husband_. Like the way her body curled in his arms and like the gray and white cloak he would soon lay over her shoulders in the godswood, the words felt only proper. They only felt _right_. 

Jon could not help but smile, knowing then what he had known from the very first moment he had set his eyes upon her from across the courtyard of Castle Black. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and whispered, "Sleep well, my love." 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> P.S. I recently changed my username from kakashihatake123 to manbunjon <3


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